


When Sorrows Come

by Tibby



Category: Carnival Row (TV)
Genre: Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: "When sorrows come, they come not single spiesBut in battalions."Post-season one. Following the closing off of Carnival Row, Vignette, Philo and Tourmaline are trying to live as best they can. However, the appearance of a stranger threatens their fragile peace.
Relationships: Jonah Breakspear/Sophie Longerbane, Rycroft Philostrate/Vignette Stonemoss
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	When Sorrows Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rodo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rodo/gifts).



In the weeks following the Parliamentary order, the Row became like a city under siege. No otherkin were allowed beyond the barricade and no human entered. Along the Row there was an atmosphere of sombre hopefulness, as folk tried their best to live much as they had done, albeit a little more carefully. After all, there was no lack of skilled workers on the Row. If a pipe burst, there was someone to fix it. If a window was broken, someone would replace it. But every task would be finished with a half-smile shared between the workmen and the onlookers, as all silently admitted that once supplies ran out, they did not know when any would come again.

The same applied doubly as folk traded for food. Where one child would have been given a slice of bread, he or she now had to share with their brother or sister. Few protested. It was as though, somewhere deep inside, all the folk of the Row had been preparing themselves for even greater hardship.

Working days became fractured as no one was able to carry out their work like before. Folk formed groups and took on new roles, suitable to their besieged state: protecting food stores, policing the streets, breaking up the skirmishes between young fae that were starting to become more frequent. There was no point in working for money; food was the sole payment. Business at the Tetterby Hotel became unsustainable. The whores could still find work but they had to set out by themselves to get it. The most valuable marks were on the outskirts, the armed guards, who were still willing to smuggle this or that into the Row in exchange for a fuck. There was no point keeping rooms for that.

Tourmaline moved out of her rooms. However, she stayed at the Tetterby with Madame Moira’s blessing, moving down into the kitchens. She had been thinking of Vini and Philo. They would need somewhere to live and the Tetterby’s kitchens still had a fair supply of food. They had a good water pump, too, and the stove warmed the whole of the main room – or at least it would whilst there was still fuel.

There, the three of them lived. Busy, yet moving nowhere. As if life was held in suspended animation. It made Vignette think of the exotic taxidermy birds that decorated rich groundlings’ parlours – only giving the illusion of vibrant life.

“How long do you think the coal will last?” Vignette asked. Her shovel gave a metallic shriek as it scraped against the bottom of the coal box. She pulled it out and heaped the contents into the stove. She didn’t turn around. She had been inwardly asking herself the question for the past two days and, stalwart as she was, she had only now brought herself to speak it out loud.

There was silence for a moment. Tourmaline began to speak but the answer came out as a short, high-pitched noise, which she strangled as soon as she realised she was forcing too much cheeriness. She coughed and began again, the false smile gone: “It’ll last us a few days yet. And then… well, it’s not like we’re short of things to burn in this place.”

Vignette turned but her glance passed over Tourmaline to Philo. They looked each other in the eye. Philo nodded.

“We’re a lot luckier than some others,” Tourmaline continued, “Practically the lap of luxury, this is.”

Vignette finally faced her and smiled. A few clichéd platitudes went through her mind. She could have said, in all honesty, “We’ve been through worse.” Or maybe, with a little more uncertainty, “There’ll be nothing we can’t handle.” But this was Tourmaline, after all. Tourmaline knew what she was thinking, she always knew. What was the point of saying anything? And besides, the fire was starting to soothe the prickling cold from her bones. The light was dim and restful. Philo and Tourmaline were moving close to the stove, so they were all three together in the warm half-light, and suddenly Vignette felt a strange sense of peacefulness. She didn’t want to talk anymore. She only wanted everything to be still.

For a moment, everything was still. Vignette relaxed, her wings fluttering minutely with tentative happiness. Then, suddenly, the silence was broken by a jarring clatter.

Philo leapt from where he had been sitting. All three gazed towards the stairwell, the direction the noise had come from. Tourmaline, Philo and Vignette had been the only ones known to use those stairs since the whores had abandoned the Tetterby. There was perfect silence.

Tourmaline opened her mouth to speak. Philo put a hand on her arm, hoping to silence her, but Tourmaline simply shook her head and told him, in a low voice, “It’s probably one of the girls come back for something. Or some kids messing about.”

She raised her voice and called out, “Who’s there?”

There was no reply but an almighty clatter as two feet fell over themselves to run back up the stairs. Without saying a word, Philo and Vignette threw open the door and gave chase.

The faerie kept his lead, always a turn of the spiral staircase ahead of them, heard but not seen, until they emerged into the old service corridor. Vignette caught sight of him in the gloom, about to slip through the door to the foyer. She unfurled her wings and leapt after him, grazing the hall’s high ceiling as she flew. By the time she got to the foyer, however, he was at the entrance, ready to take flight into the streets.

Vignette returned to Philo, frowning.

“Who was it?” Philo asked, once he had recovered his breath. He had run to catch up but he couldn’t hope to beat the speed of a creature with wings. “Anyone you recognised?”

Vignette shook her head. “Never seen him before in my life,” she said, the frown settling deeper, “But he was a fae. And he was carrying a knife…” She shook her head again, this time hoping to dislodge the sense of unease she’d been left with. “He was probably hoping to rob us,” she reasoned, “In any case, he’s gone now.”

Philo looked towards the door. “Still,” he said, “We should be careful.”

Life in the Chancellor’s House was like living under siege. So thought Jonah Breakspear. Or, at least, so he had come to think in the weeks since his father’s death. Was this how the old man experienced it, he wondered, never free to go anywhere alone? Never spending a moment without someone asking one’s opinion?

Jonah seemed to go nowhere but his own house and Balefire Hall. Back and forth, back and forth. The only respite between the two destinations came in the form of tedious carriage rides, crushed close against dry, aging parliamentary aides – either talking some miniscule detail of legislation to its death or else bemoaning the coldness of the season. The rank warmth of their breath was generally as unpleasant as the cold.

(He had not had the opportunity of another carriage ride with Sophie Longerbane. In fact, he had spent very little time with her alone. He must be able to schedule something…)

Then there was the household. No one had ever given him the least suggestion that running a household would be about as tiresome as running a republic. Perhaps it had been easier for his parents, sharing the responsibility as they did, and having a full staff of servants to keep everything running smoothly. Jonah was all on his own. The housekeeper did her best, of course, but more than half of her workforce had been sequestered on the Row. She would have to find some way to do better. Jonah needed to show that the Chancellor’s House was unchanged or he risked losing the confidence of the people. Every day letters appeared in the papers, protesting the imprisonment of the fae, listing the damage done to households and businesses deprived of their workers. He had to lead by example, show that humans could endure a period of change. What was it that some man said about politics beginning at home?

Put shortly, Jonah had a lot to contend with. Yet, even so, a vague worry weighed on Jonah’s mind that was quite apart from the demands of officialdom.

Vignette may not have seen her would-be attacker before the day at the Tetterby but she began to see him afterwards. She would catch a glimpse, just occasionally, when walking along the Row. At first she thought she was having paranoid delusions. She would chastise herself and try to think no more about it. The fifth time, however, a fortnight after their first meeting, she was able to get a better look. She was sure he was the same man.

She waited until they were back in the kitchens before telling Philo.

“You’re certain?”

“Dead certain. I’d stake my life on it.”

Philo rubbed the bristles of his beard and he looked, with his face in his hands, very tired. Vignette reached out a hand to touch him. Gratefully, he took it in his own.

“From now on, we do everything together,” he said, “No more going out alone.”

He felt Vignette tense as he said this but she reluctantly acquiesced.

“Safety in numbers, I suppose,” she said, shrugging, “But only for the time being.”

Over the next few days, Vignette managed to subtly point out the fae to Philo. He only managed a couple of brief looks but it was enough to fix the man’s image in his mind. Who knew how often he was present but out of sight.

“How many times have you seen him now? Seven? Eight?” Philo asked.

They were close to the fire, now, the first fire they’d lit in three days. The darkening day had left frost on the windows (a rarity in the city, even in the depth of winter) and they had reluctantly scraped the bottom of the coal box. It felt as though nature was urging them to consume more and more of their supplies. Perhaps, Vignette mused, the gods really were Burguishmen.

“How many times?” Philo asked again, gently, drawing Vignette out of her reverie.

“Oh, I’m not sure, could be as many as ten. Over a few weeks.”

“He’s following you,” Philo said, gravely.

A third voice spoke up: “Well, he’s not very good at it.”

Vignette and Philo simultaneously turned to Tourmaline, who was sitting between them.

“He’s not! You see him nearly every time you go out,” she reasoned, “Sounds like a rank amateur to me.”

Philo nodded, smiling a little despite himself.

“That may be,” he said, “But an amateur who means to do you harm is still someone to worry about.”

Tourmaline couldn’t argue with Philo’s logic.

“We’d better have a think,” she said, “Who on the Row would want to hurt you?”

Vignette knew immediately who Tourmaline and Philo would think of. Tentatively, she voiced their thoughts for them.

“The Black Raven?”

The Row had changed so quickly following the parliamentary order that Vignette couldn’t be sure that her former employers held any grudge against her, or even whether they were still in operation. If they hadn’t disbanded, they would have had to adjust quickly. Perhaps they had decided to do away with unnecessary encumbrances, narrowing membership until they had time to regroup. Whatever the case, Vignette hadn’t heard anything from the Black Raven since before the Row had been closed off. With Philo around, she hadn’t wanted to seek them out.

“They wouldn’t like you being around a former copper,” said Tourmaline.

“You’ve got nothing to do with them now though,” Philo argued, “They’ve cut you out. Haven’t they?”

Vignette nodded slowly, “Yes. That is, I think so. I don’t know anything about them anymore.”

“So, who else?” Tourmaline said quickly, sensing the conversation needed to move on.

“I don’t know,” said Vignette, “I can’t think. I need some air.”

She got up from the floor and headed for the staircase. Philo immediately got up too.

“What did we say about not going out alone?”

Vignette gave him a weak smile, “Stop worrying, would you? All I’m going to do is stand in the doorway.”

“I still think…” Philo began, but Vignette had disappeared before he could finish his thought.

“Vini!” Tourmaline yelled after her. There was no reply.

Philo and Tourmaline turned to each other.

“She’s gone to find the Black Raven. Hasn’t she?” said Philo, slowly.

Tourmaline nodded.

With Vignette gone, Philo didn’t like to be still. He dressed himself as warmly as possible and ventured out into the wintry night. He didn’t have a good idea of where he was going but at least he had a good idea of what Vignette’s stalker looked like. He would ask some questions, cover the Row as well as he could, investigate, do what he did best.

The old market seemed as good a place as any to start. There were traders there who could put a name to just about anyone in the city and, although the market was obviously no more, there were a few who kept to their stalls for shelter.

Philo approached a familiar tent that had once been surrounded by kitchen goods and foodstuffs from throughout the Republic. Of course, now, there was no stock left. Even the once vibrant red fabric of the tent was faded and worn. Through a gaping hole, Philo could see the stall’s taciturn former trader.

“All right, Loftus?”

The faun clung to the curtains and looked warily at Philo.

“I ain’t got nothing to sell,” he sniffed.

“I’ve got no money to buy.”

Loftus eyed him, carefully taking in his stance and his expression, checking for anything that could be a weapon. Gradually, his grip on the curtain loosened and he said, “Din’t expect to see you ‘round here again.”

Philo bowed his head and smiled without mirth, “It’s a bit of a long story.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard it. Half-blood? Still don’t understand why you’d let everyone know.”

Philo swiftly changed the subject. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m here on business. I’m looking for a faerie, medium height, broad, red hair, some scarring to his face – probably the pox.”

“Oh right,” said Loftus, “Sounds like one in a million. You want me to pick him out of a line up?”

“He carries a knife with him. Looks like a blade from the Tirnanoc weaponsmiths.”

“Yeah, him and every other fae nowadays. You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

“That’s all I’ve got right now,” Philo admitted.

Loftus snorted derisively. He felt there was some justice in a policeman being stuck on the Row, even if Philo wasn’t necessarily the policeman he would have chosen. Then again, it was a bit pathetic, seeing him cut off from his job. He was obviously desperate, maybe even mad, going begging around for a clue. There was a part of him that felt sorry for Philo.

All at once he shook his head, saying, “There’s a gang of fae who’ve taken over the old Red Lion. Been goin’ about lootin’ and robbin’ folks. Maybe he’s fallen in with them, I don’t know.”

Philo knew as well as Loftus that the chances of this tip leading him to the right man were slim. But he was grateful nonetheless. He didn’t know when Vignette would come back and, until she did, he needed something to occupy his mind. Even knowing Vignette’s talent for survival as well as he did, he could not lessen his concern.

He thanked Loftus and headed onwards to the Red Lion.

Vignette was making inquiries of her own. The questions turned out to be far more helpful than the answers, however. She could not get a decent answer out of anyone she asked. No one was willing to talk about the Black Raven because the Black Raven didn’t appreciate being talked about. Yet, on the other hand, if you _were_ talking about the Black Raven, the Black Raven were guaranteed to be listening. It was no coincidence when Vignette eventually ran into Bolero.

She didn’t have to ask twice to be taken to Dahlia.

Bolero and his fellows bound and blindfolded Vignette as soon as they could get her out of sight. She didn’t put up much of a fight. Vignette figured that they were taking her where she wanted to go in any case, so why try to escape? They couldn’t take her far. Vignette paid careful attention to the sounds and smells of the places they passed, trying also to keep her sense of direction. Once she did need to escape, she felt she’d have a fairly good idea of where she was.

After a while, she heard a heavy door being opened somewhere nearby. She was pushed, the sound of her footsteps changing as she stumbled from cobbles to wooden boards. Someone grabbed the top of her head and shoved her to the floor. Then the blindfold was removed.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she heard slow, deliberate footsteps approach her.

“What is wrong with you?” a familiar voice asked. It was terse but not exactly angry. Perhaps ‘irritated’ would be more descriptive.

She looked up to see Dahlia. The rest of the room was empty. No furniture, no people. Only a single lamp hanging overhead. The many windows were boarded up.

“You’re some kind of fool,” Dahlia went on, “Anyone with the gift of sense would stay out of the way, lay low.”

Vignette did not have the patience to listen to her.

“Why have you been following me?”

“Because you won’t stop asking questions,” Dahlia barked, losing her thin supply of patience.

“No,” said Vignette, ready to shout back, “I don’t mean today. I mean every day. You’ve been following me for weeks. Why?”

Dahlia’s temper subsided, her face turning blank. Before Dahlia could even say anything, Vignette realised that she had made a mistake.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No,” Vignette agreed. Inwardly, she was cursing herself for jumping to conclusions. She’d taken a risk for nothing. She’d put herself in the way of the Black Raven and they had nothing to tell her. She tried to keep her face as impassive as she could. Showing weakness to Dahlia would only make her situation worse.

“Look,” said Dahlia, “There’s no room for you in the Black Raven anymore but we’ll keep out of your way if you keep out of ours. You’ve taken up with that groundling – I’d say you’re a damned fool – but that’s your choice. Just know that I’m not the only one who would judge you for it.”

Vignette nodded.

“You don’t have to go far in this world to find an enemy, do you?”

Dahlia ignored her, glancing over her head to the doorway.

“Keep quiet from now on,” she muttered, “Bolero and Kerren will see you out.”

On the whole, Jonah didn’t sleep much anymore. Of course, he’d always been a night owl, flitting from nightclub to brothel to somewhat seedier nightclub, but this new state was different. Even when he gratefully fell into his bed he would be kept awake by gnawing worries. He thought of all the times past when he would sneak home in the early hours of the morning, only to be confronted by his father. He was beginning to understand his father’s kind of sleeplessness.

Then the dreams started.

In the dreams, Absalom was alive. Jonah, with the breezy pliability common to dreams, accepted this state of affairs as natural. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a little uneasy, but the overwhelming feeling was one of relief. It was as though the past year had never happened.

Absalom invited Jonah into his study. They would talk as they used to – Jonah squaring himself to face reprimands over his behaviour, Absalom entering into long moral speeches and then trailing off to talk instead about the collegiate games. Eventually there would be laughter and, despite the tension that never truly left their exchanges, there was affection too.

“Come closer, dear boy,” Absalom would then say.

Without fail and without trepidation, Jonah would get up from his chair and approach his father’s desk.

Then Absalom would reach out, grab Jonah by the front of his shirt and stab him in the chest.

The shock would not immediately wake Jonah. He would stand there for a moment, a strange warmth flooding his body, watching the blood spill. He would look at his father and see a gaping wound in his father’s own chest, pouring blood. Blood, too, dribbling from his father’s mouth and eyes.

That was when he would wake.

Vignette returned to the Tetterby Hotel before noon the next day. She found Philo waiting for her.

“Sorry,” she said weakly, “Something I had to do.”

Philo couldn't conceal the anxiety he had felt, it was plain on his face, but he didn’t attempt to argue. Vignette almost wished that he would. 

“Did you find them?” he eventually asked.

“In a way,” Vignette smiled, but without much humour, “It was more a case of them finding me.”

“And then what?”

Vignette didn’t answer for a moment. Then she simply said, “It’s not them.”

“I know that.”

“What?”

“I know,” said Philo, trying to keep the self-righteousness that he was feeling out of his voice, “I know because I went asking around when you bolted out of here. I followed a few dead ends, looking into the gangs hereabouts, but I ended up finding his landlady.”

Vignette stared.

“She owns the boarding house down near the bridge. She’s been taking in strong, young fae and giving them rooms in return for protection.”

“Who is he?” Vignette demanded, suddenly losing the tiredness that had been stealing over her.

“His name’s Deepfurrow. Ring any bells?”

Vignette frowned. It did sound familiar, although she couldn’t place it. She searched her memory, delving as far back as she could into her other life, back to Tirnanoc. No, not there. More recent than that.

“I knew,” she said, tentatively, “A girl called Deepfurrow. I think that was her name. Emmadine Deepfurrow. I say I knew her, I didn’t know her well. I got her onto a boat back when I was a sparrowhawk.”

“So maybe he’s a brother? A husband?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know anything about her family. I was with her for barely a day.”

“You’ve never seen her since?”

“Never.”

“Well,” reasoned Philo, “If she stayed in the city, she’ll be somewhere on the Row. I reckon we should go ask after her.”

He held out his hand to Vignette and added, “Together this time.”

Jonah felt out of place in the Longerbanes’ house. It was not a place he’d ever imagined going, despite the presumption of those around him that he would eventually enter into politics. It was much like the home he had grown up in. The same dark, expensive rooms. The same antiques (albeit in slightly different variations), the same appropriate books on the tall mahogany shelves. The same suffocating atmosphere of wood smoke, polish and tradition. Somehow all the similarities made the subtle differences even more unsettling.

Beside the library’s hearth, Sophie Longerbane poured the tea.

Jonah’s eyes fixed absentmindedly on the slither of skin between her gloved hand and the cuff of her dress. The contrast of her black mourning attire made it a crescent moon. With a turn of her wrist it was eclipsed.

“Do you take milk or sugar?” Sophie asked.

“Neither, thank you.”

Sophie passed the teacup. Each of her movements were impossibly considered and elegant. Ladies often astonished Jonah with such barely perceptible accomplishments. He knew that Sophie had barely seen a soul whilst growing up and yet she knew every gesture, every grace that marked a society hostess. Who had taught her and why?

He watched her spoon a little honey into her own cup. She rested the teaspoon on the saucer with a whispering tinkle as metal touched porcelain. Then, as if this were the sound of an orchestra warming up their instruments, and the concert were about to begin, she fixed Jonah with a hardened stare.

“To business,” she said.

Jonah felt his back straighten and his senses sharpen. Like a dog being called by its master, he thought. The simile wasn’t pleasant to him and he would sooner not have come up with it. Sophie was reaching for her notebook.

“Really?” said Jonah, with the slightest hint of a sulk, “We’ve barely been alone together for weeks. Can’t we… take some time?”

Sophie eyed him shrewdly. He guessed she might be trying to work out whether he wanted to talk or to fuck. He quickly reassured her.

“I want your advice,” he told her, “On a personal matter, not a political one.”

This evidently surprised her. She didn’t know quite how to take such an earnest entreaty but, despite her best intentions to keep entirely professional, she felt strangely touched. Jonah took the pause caused by her surprise as an opportunity to speak on.

“Would it be possible for me to consult a haruspex?” he began, “I mean, it must be possible. I’m the Chancellor. And there must be several in the city.”

Sophie raised a hand to silence him.

“Let’s take a step back a moment,” she said softly, “Why do you need to consult a haruspex?”

Jonah clasped his hands together. His gaze turned from studying her face to studying the floor. His mouth moved silently as he worked out how best to explain himself.

“I’ve been having these dreams,” he said at last.

Before Philo and Vignette could leave the hotel, Tourmaline returned from fetching food. She looked Vignette up and down as she entered, silently appraising her for damage, emotional or physical. Then she laid her finds on the kitchen table for the others to inspect. There were a couple of potatoes, a bag of oats and some grey-looking meat, animal unknown. She noted that her friends didn’t seem particularly interested.

“No luck with the Black Raven?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

Vignette shook her head.

“Don’t suppose you ever came across a faerie called Emmadine Deepfurrow?” Philo asked.

Tourmaline frowned. The name did sound familiar. No one she knew personally but definitely someone she’d heard of.

“Wasn’t she one of the girls who were murdered a year or two back? Some son of a politician got done for strangling three maids, all of them fae. It was in all the papers at the time.”

Philo reeled. “The Winter Garden case?”

“Yeah, that’s what they called it,” Tourmaline said slowly, glancing from Philo to Vignette, “What’s all this about?”

“Philo thinks the man following me is called Deepfurrow,” Vignette explained.

“And you didn’t recognise the name?” Tourmaline said, looking pointedly at Philo, “Some policeman you are.”

“Former policeman,” Philo corrected her, “Besides, it wasn’t my case.”

Tourmaline shrugged. “I still don’t see what it’s got to do with the Deepfurrow girl.”

“I was the one who helped her get into the Burgue,” said Vignette, “Maybe he’s related to her somehow and he blames me for putting her in harm’s way?”

“Seems like a stretch.”

“We’ve got to cover every possibility,” Philo said, “We were just about to go out and ask around.”

“Well, be careful,” Tourmaline sighed, “If he catches you asking questions, he won’t be best pleased, I bet.”

There was a sparse flurry of snow on the wind as Vignette and Philo stepped out. Vignette was glad she was used to the cold. She thought of the folk who came to the Burgue from the south – where were their sun-warmed meadows? Their glittering coastlines? Surely it was harder for them than for a veteran of Tirnanoc’s harsh winters.

Vignette had always been ready to face danger and physical hardship. It was the loss of freedom that ground her down.

She and Philo walked for a while in silence, although, of course, the Row could never be called silent. There was a constant hum of greetings, gossip and quarrels in a dozen different dialects; footsteps, hoofsteps, rattling barrow wheels. The closing of the Row had not quietened it. There was something hopeful about that, Vignette found.

She was keeping a keen ear and a keen eye open for Deepfurrow but so far there was no sign.

“They say it’s going to be the coldest winter in living memory,” Philo remarked, apropos of nothing.

Vignette nodded, although her mind was not engaged on Philo’s speech.

“The river might freeze over, like it used to in the old days,” he went on, “They used to hold markets on the ice, provided the ice was thick enough.”

They were approaching the bridge. Philo looked quickly across the street towards the boarding house where Deepfurrow had his rooms. Then he followed Vignette’s gaze across the bridge, to the line of armed guards.

Vignette tugged the sleeve of his coat, dragging him down so that she could whisper, urgently, “That’s him!”

Philo strained his eyes. She was right. But something was wrong.

“Where’s his wings?” Philo asked.

“I don’t know,” Vignette answered, as confused as he was, “He must have bound them or something.”

They ducked behind an abandoned kiosk and watched as Deepfurrow talked to a couple of the guards. He was there for no more than a minute before one of the guards stood back and let him pass beyond the camp’s boundaries. In an instant, he was gone.

Vignette and Philo sat on the damp cobbles behind the kiosk, trying to process what they had seen.

“I’m sure it was him,” Vignette said.

“It was.”

“Why would they let him out, just like that? They must know he’s fae. Even hiding his wings there’s no mistaking it. And he lives just over the bridge. The guards on duty there must have seen him a thousand times. He must have some connection with someone in the city who can pull a lot of strings.”

All at once, something struck Philo.

“Vignette,” he said, “You saw Deepfurrow so many times. Did you ever see him when you were out on your own?”

Vignette’s brow furrowed as she thought back carefully. “No,” she admitted, “That’s so strange. I never even considered that.”

Philo could have laughed out loud but he was afraid of making a scene. He sat, shaking his head, trembling with silent, mirthless laughter. Vignette gave him a shove. Her irritation was genuine.

“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed.

“Are you,” Philo stopped abruptly, gasping for breath. He composed himself. “Are you telling me that, all this time, we’ve just assumed this man was after you and he could just as well have been out for me?”

“I suppose so,” she said, finally letting out an ironic snort of laughter herself, “I suppose you’re not short on people wanting to do you harm.”

Philo shook his head as he stood upright and helped Vignette to her feet.

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions this time,” he said, “We’ll have to start from the beginning.”

Jonah did not want to look at Sophie’s face. He kept his eyes on her hands, still and folded together lightly on her lap. She had not said a word since he finished his description of the dream, nor had she moved. Finally, she let out a short whispering breath and said:

“Really, Jonah, I think a nerve specialist should be seeing to bad dreams, not a haruspex.”

“I think the dreams must be trying to tell me something.”

“Perhaps they’re telling you to eat fewer rich foods before going to bed?”

Jonah felt his hands clench. “Damn it, Sophie. I’m serious. My mother took the old magic seriously.”

“And wound up dead before her time,” Sophie cut in.

Jonah shook his head. “She knew things. I’m sure she knew even more than you did, listening at keyholes in your father’s house.”

For the first time, he saw her shudder. Her clasped hands twitched.

“My house,” she corrected him, coldly.

“I could not trust my mother when she was alive but I trust her in this. The old magic can’t be denied. These dreams are a warning.”

“You can’t seriously believe that a dream can tell you your future?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to take chances. I’m taking precautions. My mother always said that Absalom’s son would achieve great things - and if that’s not me, maybe I’m standing in my _brother’s_ way.”

“Please, Jonah,” said Sophie, narrowing her eyes, “Tell me you haven’t done anything rash.”

Jonah watched her hands, still again, slim fingers crossed as though she were readying for prayer.

“No,” he said, “I’ve not done anything rash.”

“What have you done?”

“I’ve just sent someone to find Absalom’s son, that’s all.”


End file.
